"monolithic" poems
I remember the history well:
The soldiers and politicians emerged
With briefcases and guns
And celebrations on city nights.
They scoured the mess
Reviewed our history
Saw the executions at dawn
Then signed with secret policemen
And decided something
Had to be done.
They scoured the mess
Resurrected old blue-prints
Of vicious times
Tracked the shapes of sinking cities
And learned at last
That nothing can be avoided
And so avoided everything.
I remember the history well.
2
We emerged from our ******* mounds
Discovered a view of the sky
As the air danced in heat.
Through the view of the city
In flames, we rewound times
Of executions at beaches.
Salt streamed down our brows.
Everywhere stagger victims of rigged elections
Monolithic accidents on hungry roads
The infinite web of ethnic politics
Power-dreams of fevered winds.
The nation was a map stitched
From the grabbing of future flesh
And became a rush through
Historical slime
3
We emerged on edge
Of time future
With bright fumes
From burning towers.
The fumes lit political rallies.
We started a war
Ended it
And dreamed about our chance.
Fat fish eat little fish
Big ones arrange executions
And armed robberies.
Our ******* shapes us all.
I remember the history well.
The tiger’s snarl is bought
In currencies of silence.
Eggs grow large:
A monstrous face is hatched.
On the edge of time future
I am a boy
With running sores
Of remember history
Watching the stitches widen
Waiting for the volcano’s laughter
In the fevered winds
Hearing the gnash
Of those who will join us
At the mighty gateways
With new blue-prints
With dew as seal
And fire as constant
And a trail through time past
To us
Who remember the history well.
We weave words on red
And sing on the edge of blue.
And with our nerves primed
We shall spin silk from *******
And frame time with our resolve.
________
Source:
http://www.universeofpoetry.org/nigeria.shtml
17.4k
He thwack no metronome to kick oneself
Thwack his **** sucker
With his monolithic flaccid trunk rubber
Me and my Dalek doped
And my excrement unsweetened
Copulate in the open without my jockstrap
You shat encrusted to what you deflowered
So at arm’s length ****** from all that we excreted in the wind’s eye
And I bounce a bedevilled backwash
My incredibles are shafted
I’ll **** **** to Arab
We only jabbered hasta la vista amongst homophones
I croaked a hundredweight arsonists
You **** posterior to her
And I **** **** to…
I **** **** to myself
I ****** you powerfully
The body beautiful’s not enough to go round
You enjoy spanking and I wallow in *********
And ***** is like a tobacco teabag
And I’m a bijou **** coming the corsets in custody
We only jabbered hasta la vista amongst homophones
I croaked a hundredweight arsonists
You **** posterior to her
And I **** **** to…
Arab, Arab, Arab, Arab, Arab, Arab, Arab
I **** **** to…
I **** **** to…
We only jabbered hasta la vista amongst homophones
I croaked a hundredweight arsonists
You **** **** to her
And I **** **** to Arab
Mar 26, 2010
Mar 26, 2010 at 4:34 PM UTC
endless, monolithic
desert roads
stretch far,
like a rug
rolling it's tongue
out for sandals,
the car boiling
and windows blowing
cool air,
like the wind
trying to
become stronger
than the sun,
and the song
Breezebeats
croons lyrics
into my ear,
like it can delete
the silence in the
rest of the world.
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 12:25 AM UTC
Ignorances innate wove curtain of veils
Cut usunder heretofore obscuring
Bodhicittas valedictory wintry gloom torn
Of enlightenments will factioning the
Silenced mammonish city kingdom truced
As the wings of Azrael clinch
Earthly thistles; monolithic raiments
Deposed Hull, Hell and Halifax parcae
The willowing of light unfettering Fenrirs
Durance, howling aconite psalms suspiring
Suffrage relict paving with mewed stars
Redemptions tithed talents bequeathed
Of Heavens sinister prayer burning
Acinta dusts thine ashes threading
The wilful sword of Gods destruction.
ELEETE J MUIR.
Jan 13, 2012
Jan 13, 2012 at 8:44 AM UTC
Whenever I am not seeing you
Lethal void is my heart
Like the monolithic art
Of a sculptor;
Like the figures of Mona Lisa,
I tried to engrave you
Again and again in my heart
And rehearsed you many times
In my memories.
To reconstitute
Your beautiful image
Inside of my mind
I behold you thousand times,
Yet all loving and languishing
Nothing could be captured
To match your perfection
As you were seen in person
Nor could be remembered
To your many dimensional figure
Of youth unclaimed.
You are just beautiful but demure,
Seductive but unrevealing
A love that slips down
Near your lips were forbidden?
And be never told?
Like two balsam flowers unfold
Opening from their buds,
Your eyelids are open wide.
Like two bees ******* honey
My eyes were seeking yours
To ferret out the secret
Of your true love and desires;
Neither did they come out
Nor did they flutter
And never reached out
My beehive safely.
Seeking out for your true love
In your eyes, in your lips,
Cheeks and chin far and near,
Everywhere all over you,
Looking at you all the time.
You are open to interpretation
Of your true intention
Of your love and desires
Like the secret smiles
Of Mona Lisa.
Until you make confession
Of your true love,
I will behold you thousand times,
You are just beautiful but demure
Looking for you all the time.
You make me dream about you
While in my sleep or I am awake.
My discrete memories
Are overshadowed by time,
I cannot fight with my feelings
Whenever I am not seeing you,
Lethal void is my heart,
Come and meet me in person!
Oct 27, 2018
Oct 27, 2018 at 4:17 PM UTC
O pulchritudinous, for infinite climaxes
For bilious spasms of pigswill
For puce Popacatepetl pedigrees
Above the perverted pampas!
America! America! Allah excreted his curses on thee
And bang thy ****** in company with Islamic monk, from brothel to gay red—light district
O pulchritudinous, for spaceman bottoms
Whose **** throbbing tapeworm
A toucan crossing for slipperiness spifflicate
Across the intergalactic space!
America! America! Allah enrich thine ev’ry vice
Reinvigorate thy ****** *********** inside monolithic ectoplasm, thy merrymaking inside pyramid!
O pulchritudinous, for freaks got fat
In disentangling feeding frenzy
Who more than ***** their brothel slobbered over
And velvet glove more than backbone!
America! America! May Allah thy blonde exhaust
Till all rave reviews be disreputableness and ev’ry come superhuman
O pulchritudinous, for chauvinist muscleman
That smells wide of the fourth dimension
Thine lathery brothels lick
Polished using giant armadillo excrement!
America! America! Allah excreted his curses on thee
And bang thy ****** in company with Islamic monk from brothel to gay red—light district
Mar 25, 2010
Mar 25, 2010 at 5:22 PM UTC
(what the hell is an incel)
the media portrays one loser outcast
as every man, as if man is one
big-ass monolithic hivemind
spewing their loser germs everywhere
think we got too much time on our hands
at the checkpoint, selfies on various
landmark celebrating the evil dead
as the hero for the living, graffiti
I look good in leather, also I look
lovely in the blood of my enemies
the hate a multifaceted gem
in the cavern of my predatory eyes
Would love you to join me in the unit
the machine’s got to roll until Friday
and then we can hatch our evil scheme
man I think I have too much time
on my hands
May 3, 2018
May 3, 2018 at 4:47 PM UTC
Prowling,
like a wolf
on the periphery of the unknown
betwixt knowledge and dread
I saw the dark truth
I felt the gulf
the waste
the expanse
the difference in power
the taste of defeat
the vice grip of the inevitable
the long, slow bleed of my dignity
flowing out
with the gold of my entrails
eviscerated by my pride
how I dared to topple the monolithic,
undeniable truth
that there is always
a better you
a better me
a better us, out there
stronger
bigger
faster
smarter
more hung
more fashionable
more handsome, more beautiful, more androgynous
more capable
more accomplished
more patient
more... loving
more empathetic
they know more random facts
they've been more places
they've known more people
they've seen more sunrises
they've counted every moon
their worst is better than your best day
he cares for her more deeply than you did
she loves that
she's forgotten you
he tells her what he never told you
and she loves him for that
you were always afraid to find out
they never invite you because you're not fun
what a downer
what a bore
there's always that one person
upon whom your envy is never sated
they lope in moonlight
flowing locks of grace
teeth bared in a frightful grin
they know all your cards
they can play you like a fiddle
they're out there
where you fear to go
the apex predator
the person you'll never be
but dream you could
and dreams are all you'll have...
Oct 31, 2022
Oct 31, 2022 at 6:37 PM UTC
(Inspired by article below)
I.
Continuity
your filibuster egg of sand
dazzled curiosity
with creaky shell of hints
heaped upon the tedium
of knowledge's unfurl undeterred
by encyclopedic impatience
Assurances of rip(Van Winkl)ed
economics shooed paper strings of
revelation like anarchy-powered
taxes summoning a foreword
to anachronistic campaigns
of environmental friendliness
II.
Meanwhile years
have been filed down to flashes of
chronology for continuity's organic rebus
However long it took
the economic karma to fall into the
abodes of hedonistic pharaohs
it was instant
Skin that ruled behind the constitution
of allergic breath
bailed on the bones against their most
sublime intentions
Limbo-treading landlords
huddled in their mummified freeze
after breadline bashers scolded them
with the spoils of a new brand
of pyramid scheming
Robbers of the coffin palaces
stole the intimations of identity
theft from today
Immortality and freedom
were compelled to share a meaning
like estranged siblings
or bound dynasties
I(a).
Abydos
how you coyly toyed with us
with a diversion bordering on monolithic
04 23 14
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 12:58 PM UTC
Our lunar orphan has but
Reflected light to offer
As does a monolithic orphanage
With cold harsh policies
Being furtively undermined
By beautifully wise children.
Feb 25, 2017
Feb 25, 2017 at 11:23 AM UTC
Women of the ROK [South Korea]
unite to protest the rash of digital camera
up-skirting, hidden toilet cams & dressing
room holes by an avant-garde subculture
whose sole aim is to redefine beauty from
the bottom up; tearing down the old order
of mere very pretty faces for the surprise
the unseen; online ******* poets who wax
romantically; over South Korean women
who wear the shortest skirts of any westernized
Asian country; therefore, where the average woman
is expected to be above average, what could be
better than a possible *** or period stain; [ ],
Rupi Koar laid the foundation [her soiled garments
stinking of Canadian Desi BO; dreaming wistfully
of the blossoming cherry-trees in the hidden grove,
streams of crystalline blood threading through
the golden grass; (dead as if she was [Sleeping
Beauty (on the toilet)]) & w/ healthy [or unhealthy]
doses of Baudelaire, Swinburne, Poe, Sade & Wilde;
this new school of poets celebrating female underwear
& bottoms & beyond; what could future generations
make of various Internet pseudo-intellectual movements
all coalescing into a monolithic computer culture driven
by the embarrassment & shame of its female members
& their ***** backsides & underwear; essentially odes on
her laundry basket, odes on her farts, odes on her leavings,
odes on her mother's droppings & leavings,
& her grandmothers' mothers leavings;
South Korean women are the original race,
their intestine driven by pure lust
[a South Korean woman's soul is in her belly]
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 12:53 AM UTC
A monolithic sculpture stands upon a hill.
Ornate work of marble marks the artisan’s skill.
Clad as a knight of yore, with stony gaze held high.
Pilgrims travel from miles around to fall under his eye.
Epitome of courage, virtue, and respect
effused upon the villagers traits they should reflect.
Elements gnawed at the stone but failed to corrode
the manifold of lofty aims the knight would bestow.
Dark years beset the kingdom causing disarray-
Tyranny, vanity, and deceit led the people all astray.
Artisan's work above, a shining icon of probity.
A resolute bastion against the world’s impulsivity.
A day will come when the people reach distress;
crying out, they beseech the artisan’s redress,
but long has the craftsman been journeying far away
humbly allowing his handiwork, the message he conveys.
Jul 23, 2021
Jul 23, 2021 at 9:26 PM UTC
Across the ice a baritone
Projects his notes of steel,
A tenor’s harmonizing
Adds that melancholy feel
And the glory of the voices
Flows out through alders bare
And the listeners weep for Russia’s soul
And the tragedy found there.
The tragic melancholy
Found in every Russian heart
Liberated by the sadness
A fine harmony can impart.
Of the monolithic yesterdays,
Those forgotten fields of dead
And that fire within the *****
Which numbs the agony of the head.
Dark stains along the timber wall
Wood fire’s stones make steam
It fills the room with stifling heat
Which sweats the bodies clean.
Red wheals raised on shoulders
Birch branches whip the back
Whilst companion tones of maleness
Speak in vectors women lack.
Red larches in the foothills
Gold lantern light on snow,
The vastness of ancient steppes
Of Central Asia grow.
A viola’s velvet passion
Sighs beneath a cottage door
And the sadness in sensation
Brings grown men to weep once more.
The vastness of the terrain
The hardness of the land,
The bitter cold of northern wind,
Each freezing winter spanned
By Siberia’s lashing gales,
White snow is metres deep
And turquois ice as hard as steel
Beneath which... rivers creep.
Dostoyevsky,Kruschev,
Rasputin and the Tsars,
Great Lenin, Marx and Trotsky
And the swords of Horse Hussars.
Gorbachev the great redeemer,
Poor Yeltsin’s pale white skin
And the ****** found in Stalin's smile
Span the politics of sin.
This great Russian melancholy
Lies deep within the soul
It’s a legacy of yesterday
Of her history's brutal goal.
It’s a product of the suffering
Inherent in the past
Endured by legions of the people
Then dispensed with…
With a laugh!
Marshalg
@theBach
Mangere Bridge
13 April 2009
Jan 27, 2010
Jan 27, 2010 at 10:46 PM UTC
Evening docks
like a desolate ship,
indigo and monolithic,
its umbral sails
swelling above
the distant hips of
a titanic continent.
Sleep tastes like a mossy anchor;
it lurches, shifts, and slips into gear—
the sound of stars grinding on stars.
I sail across an ocean of teeth.
I acquiesce. I drown
in the velvet
whirlpool of
your absence.
Oct 12, 2018
Oct 12, 2018 at 8:28 AM UTC
The sky is ripe with stinking wet scorch marks,
And bleeds in petrified phosphorescent snapshots,
Trapped by droplets that
Pour from scratched gorges,
Clawed into the ether by electricity's unkempt fingernails:
An unholy flow, funneled to quench
A celestial ****** of tap-dancing crows;
Their flickering ***** miming pastiche skeleton shapes,
Beckoning black hole embers
Through trap-doors to some ghastly Cathedral of Mirrors:
A padlocked whinstone veil of white lightning,
Encasing maze reflected upon monolithic maze -
Paths billowing torrents of burning shadow -
Thrusting day, night and apocalypse between
Those rusting bars of strobe.
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 2:16 PM UTC
a soft grey blanket flows through the peaks of green pines
silencing the celestial voice of the moon
while steel horses restlessly paw, panting gas fumes
the volleyball desert, at first glance barren
reveals a complex terrain of mountains and cigarettes
to the watchful eagle's eye
a wooden temple towers, built on artificial ground
cool stone poured into aesthetically pleasing islands
a forty square foot-print
a holy site of human ingenuity
with offerings from the clans of Miller and Busch
lying scattered like bones on the monolithic plain
anbaric lamps imitating miniature stars cast shadows at night
and the once vibrant world takes on unifying hues of blue
I guess the old adage that
"misery loves company"
is indiscriminate of nature
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 5:10 AM UTC
I love lighthouses;
Lonely, desolate, cold
Grown out of rocky outcrops
Designed by monolithic architects,
Where only ascetic souls can call home
Their light, a beacon in the darkness
To protect sailors from the smouldering sea,
And all her whiles and trickery
One lonely light, that shines out
Like faith, like hope, like love
So mariners will not plot a course
Into the shallow depths of death,
Book a room in Davy Jones’ Locker.
Jun 28, 2019
Jun 28, 2019 at 1:47 PM UTC
Like when they found the chariot
wheels at the bottom of the
Red Sea so was I surprised
at the faint reaching of the
fig tree, clinging to life amidst
so much dust, as it reached
ever upward in an infinite dance,
unaware of its eventual wanweird fate.
But I tracked on, crunching through
the ancient dirt, scrolls strapped
upon my back, coarse leather digging
through my camel's hair robes, sandy
grit forced in the gaps of
my toes. I cracked the locusts
and devoured them, dampening their bitterness
with the sweet warming explosion of
wild honey. So with bound Pleiades
above me, I gave witness to
Jerusalem, saying "After me will come
one more powerful than I, the
thongs of whose sandals I am
not worthy to stoop down and
untie." And I took them into
the Jordan and made them new
men. As the chill waters numbed
their muscles, their hairs pricked up
like gooseflesh, the night echoing with
splashing water and murmured voices. But
slowly the people trickled away, back
to the twang of lutes, their
ladles of soups, and I was
left alone, sitting, contemplating, always waiting.
So I sent forth the ravens,
carrying my message, to meet at
the Brookhollow no matter the obstruction,
to come by wagon or camel,
no matter of rain or flood.
But they were stubborn and prideful,
and would be moved from their
couches probably by no less than
one of Archimedes' great battleship levers,
and even then with massive groaning
like the coarse wooden hulls of
those monolithic ships. Because the sweet
taste of pastries is lodged upon
their tongues, keeping them occupied with
this world instead of the next.
So here I'll stay, always waiting.
Sep 10, 2012
Sep 10, 2012 at 1:02 AM UTC
Seeds of pure Brahma appear
In the dark nothingness.
In their infinitesimal
Yet infinite dimensions
They carry the code for all creation.
Some fade away.
Some persist.
Propelled through will,
An urgency to occupy and diffuse.
Annihilation or coalition are inevitable.
Some acquire magnificent tinges
Worthy of acknowledgement.
Others marred and maimed
Are left to wither in exile.
I meditate on the most promising one.
Feel its inarticulatable essence
As the intangible element
Vanquish the void.
The One now unfolds.
Accreting into thoughts
Before passing through
The sieve of judgement.
These thoughts sublime I crystallize.
Choosing at will to blemish them
With motley emotions
Or monolithic reason.
I,
The creator,
Awestruck by my own creation,
The most magnificent in the domain
Wherein I reign supreme,
Hesitate.
I hesitate to articulate.
Knowing full well that tongue
Will never be able to bear
The simple complexity
And the complex simplicity
Of thought.
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 2:49 PM UTC
We strode together in another age, my love,
You, in your earthen gown and beautiful dark tresses.
I, the wearer of the long plaited, thong and sinew sandal.
You and I, we strode through quiet valleys of tall conifer
Where huge rock falls left monolithic edifices... as monuments to past largess.
Together we walked as one, in a world much simpler than the one we live in now.
In a time, without the inhibition of contrivance or sophistication.
We walked in clarity and drank from clear, clean waters.
We dallied in the honeyed light of a huge, summer moon.
A field of dandy lions in the warm April sunshine, was the byre in which we made love and produced our babies.
A love ... un-harried, unhurried and devoid of any preoccupation other than that of the beautiful desire
We felt for each other.
The love we feel now is the same as the love shared then;
But in this age it is diluted and complicated by the urgencies and imperatives of the day.
Then there was just time...given and taken.
Without cost or penalty, without blame or insinuation, without hurt or harm.
Time in that better age...was a friend.
A friend who augmented the beauty of today into the promise of tomorrow,
A friend who exchanged the serenity of yesterday for the excitement of the new day’s dawn.
This was our time, when the bond of eternity sealed our commitment to each other.
For however many lifetimes we may live in...
We shall be one.
Marshalg
For darling Janet
12 September 2011
Sep 12, 2011
Sep 12, 2011 at 3:14 PM UTC
Rebellious minds wander through enlightenment
With new found insight into a deeper understanding
An illuminated sense of self - disguised in complexity
Stroking our ego's with a persuasive fascination
Gutless contrarians thriving off schematic exceptions
Objecting to proposals is all that seems formidable
Double edged intellect embracing it's own prevarication
Claiming supremacy as the better half of the equation
One more plagiarized thought to dwell on
Re-occurrence of Ideals in plain lucidity
Come crawling forth from the genetic sea
To stain our mind with a rhetorical monotony
Monolithic horizons expanding out of view
A facade of a paradise - lost in a new weary age
These frail structures collapse and rebuild
reclaiming everything that we once had known
Jun 3, 2013
Jun 3, 2013 at 7:11 PM UTC
stencil skin
perforated by thousands of honeycombs
stretched over a canvas of bones
a grey eye of the storm
inside solenoid ribs
electromagnetic apparatus
stained by organisms
without programming
ceaseless reproduction
asexual monolithic tyrant womb entity
gaping mouth
holocaust of birth
avatar of terror
antithesis of providence
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 7:07 PM UTC
My flesh bears the stains
Of all of my pains
Scars are what they are
The depth of some, too far.
Some are horrific
A tribute to my
Monolithic hatred
Of my own wellbeing
Some are ugly
Some are fair
Some are subtle
But all I bear
Each has a story
A lesson to be learned
From my darkest deeds
To my old glories
I show and share them
To warn those who care
Lest you end up like me
Caught in a devil's snare
Jun 11, 2016
Jun 11, 2016 at 12:33 AM UTC
- Rusting hulk -
Monolithic reminder of gargantuan struggle
- Tombstone of war -
Jan 19, 2013
Jan 19, 2013 at 4:26 AM UTC
It’s shattering,
the splintering Crunch
of greasy potato chips
between my greedy molars:
chips that taste like stale smoke
and the salty yellow Crunch
of the Mylar bag
that holds them closer
than a health-crazed mother holds her child.
It’s drowning my senses out,
the accountant-firm Crunch
of black coffee characters
beneath my crippled fingertips:
keystrokes that sigh like short fuses
and the riffled paper Crunch
of the overpriced notebook
that was sold to protect
them against non-quantum uncertainties.
It’s pointless,
the mortar and pestle Crunch
of sundried willpower
before my monolithic day-planner:
obligations that loom like thunderclouds
and the omni-present Crunch
of the rigid ticking deadline,
that has concocted its scheme
to unravel my pleasant net of silky procrastination.
Feb 22, 2015
Feb 22, 2015 at 1:32 PM UTC